


Alone Among the Wreck

by Sarai of Umardelin (anissa7118)



Series: Teach Me How to Fight, I'll Show You How to Win [1]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Gen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-05-14 07:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anissa7118/pseuds/Sarai%20of%20Umardelin
Summary: Jareth sure doesn't seemed thrilled with his role or his rule in the movie.  So how did an arrogant fae end up ruling over a capricious kingdom of goblins?  And how did he become the king we know and love in the Draw Your Swords 'verse?  This fic is the answer.  It could be subtitled, How the Goblin King Got His Labyrinth.





	1. Oinos

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! This fic serves as a prequel to the movie, and details how Jareth came to rule the Labyrinth. It includes details and backstory from our main fic ‘verse, which began with Draw Your Swords, continues in And My Kingdom as Great, and will conclude with Like a Raging Storm. If you enjoyed the OC’s we established in those stories, you should like this one a lot, too.
> 
> The chapters are going to be MUCH shorter than our usual, and the overall fic is shorter. This started as a request on the Labyrinth Fanfic Lovers community on FB, and it snowballed. It’s also good to firmly establish just how our dear, spoilt Jareth acquired his crown, and (eventually) became someone worthy of Sarah’s love.

The fae cannot lie. But the one who stood before the High King’s inquisitors had striven for hours to avoid speaking the names of the others aloud. Every possible trick of wit and silver tongue had been employed, sweating and swearing, until at last he gasped out the names.

The High King was unsurprised at most of them. A dozen ne’er-do-wells, minor nobles and second sons, all of them with more time and power and coin than sense. If his queen had not been in a frothing rage over the insult – that damned play, with Titania swooning over the ass – he would’ve slapped them all down once and let them go. Or killed them, whichever was more expedient. They were fools only, and had caused no permanent harm, even when the magic used became obvious. A few mortal memories had needed adjusting, and that was that.

But the insult could not be borne, even if that was not the charge they would prosecute. And then his eye landed on a name in the middle of the list, the one who’d played Puck. It should not have been a surprise; such power wielded so skillfully would require a mage of that caliber.

If only the boy wasn’t his cousin’s grandson. The Sorceress of Astolwyr was a power he did not like to gainsay; her strength was entirely self-made, and her powers had been learnt from the goddess’ third face directly. A warning would have been enough, but such errant foolhardiness must be curbed … and again, the High Queen raged at the insult.

Turning to his seneschal, the High King spoke quietly. “Find me a law that forbids me to kill a crown prince,” he demanded.

“Yes, my liege,” the man replied, and hastened off as the High King turned his mind to finding suitable, non-lethal punishment. If said punishment could kill two birds with one stone, all the better. And he _did_ have a masterless kingdom out in the wilds, it was true… 

 

 


	2. Dwai

Cadelinyth of Etaron – known as Della to those she loved – clattered into the breakfast room with wild, staring eyes. “Where is Jareth?” she demanded.

Her husband, King Deruthiel, knew _something_ was badly wrong. Della was no hysteric. “He went riding an hour ago. What happened?”

“They arrested those idiots who interfered with the damned English bard’s play,” his wife snapped, raking her hands through her hair. “It was that pack of fools he runs with, Thiel. Urylas and the lot.”

His gut seemed frozen into a solid hunk of icy dread. “Oh gods.”

“I’ll tan his hide,” Della continued, harrowing her blonde curls again. “I asked him directly if he’d had anything to do with it, and the sly little weasel asked _me_ if I thought he was that stupid! I was so blinded by relief I never realized he didn’t give me a direct answer. Gods, when I catch him, Thiel, I’m going to beat him black and blue – _after_ I haul him to Astolwyr so Mother can intercede for him.”

Thiel slammed his fist into the table once in fury. “If he’d told us at once, we could’ve done something.  _Damn!_ Of all the stupid, arrogant, pig-ignorant…” 

Della gave a bitter laugh. “He’s definitely ours, isn’t he? I’ll go and fetch him. You get Mother via seeing-crystal. She needs to know what’s coming her way.”

She was gone on silent wings, an owl flying fast in the daylight, and Thiel shivered to remember that folklore Above said an owl by day was an omen of doom.  _Not if I can help it,_ he thought, and rushed to send word to his mother-in-law.

He’d barely finished that when Etaron shuddered around him. The High King’s men were already here. For one wild moment, Thiel thought of inviting them in, dropping the portcullis behind them, and then … well, he had an iron sword, didn’t he? And guards loyal to  _him_ only.

No. Madness. That path ended with him and his wife and child fleeing Above, hunted as traitors. His people would go into exile or die, and no king worth the name could permit that. He could throw himself on the High King’s mercy, trade his life for his son’s if need be, but he could not damn his vassals.

Thiel took a deep breath, and went down to meet them.

 


	3. Treis

Jareth returned from his ride to find soldiers in the courtyard, and his father looking decades older. His stomach plummeted, but he dismounted, bowed to his King, and greeted the soldiers as well. The hour had come, the secret was out, and there was no hiding from his punishment. One drunken mistake, a prank really, with no thought for how far it might go or how those the play was supposedly about would see it. He swore to himself he would stand brave, not falter and run, stand as his father’s son when the sentence was pronounced.

If only he could’ve told his mother he loved her, one last time … but better that she not see this.

“Yes, sir?” he said, holding himself tall. Let them not remember him as a coward.

“Jareth, son,” Thiel faltered, and shook his head. The leader of the soldiers looked at him pointedly, and he took a deep breath. “You stand accused by the High King of revealing our existence to mortals at large, of using magic before a mortal audience, of interfering with mortal affairs. Have you anything to say to this charge?”

_I am going to die,_ Jareth thought. And he would not die with so pitiful an excuse as  _‘I was drunk and it seemed funny at the time,’_ on his lips. “No, sir,” he replied soberly. “I apologize for dishonoring your name in so foolish a fashion.”

Thiel’s mouth tightened grimly. “Then you do not deny it.”

He could not. No fae could speak a lie, and if he tried, they would think of something worse than death. Not to mention, if he tried to weasel out of it, his parents would never be able to recover from the shame. Bad enough that he’d stained their kingdom and name with such a stupid little prank. He would not make it worse. “I do not, Father. I have transgressed, and I will suffer the consequences.”

He’d hoped to see a little bitter pride in Thiel’s countenance, but there was only a heavy sigh. “Then it falls to me to pronounce your sentence,” the King of Etaron said.

Jareth almost quailed then.  _Don’t make_ _**him** _ _ do it, _ he thought, staring at the soldiers.  _ Don’t make my own father slay me. Force him to pronounce the sentence, but strike the blow yourselves. Don’t do this to him, I beg you. _

Yet death was not what Thiel spoke aloud, and as the words rolled forth with all the weight and might of the High King’s magic behind them, Jareth realized with dawning hope that he was going to live … but at what cost?

“Exile I name you,” Thiel said. “Outcast from my demesne. You are sentenced to be King of Umardelin, the Unruled Lands, the Goblin Realm, until such time as you learn to repent of your foolishness. Because you made mockery of love, because your selfish entertainment gave no consideration to how the rest of the fae kingdoms might be compromised, the key to your curse shall be unselfish love…”

The rest, he couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. Umardelin? The  _ Goblin _ Realm? Yea gods, you could smell the place a mile away! It would have been better to be exiled Above, as he’d first thought, to be a landless pauper trying to pretend mortality for all time!

And as the magic swirled around him, preparing to transport him to his sentence in only the clothes he stood up in, Jareth remembered one more thing about Umardelin.

The goblins had  _ eaten _ their last king.

 


	4. Kwetweres

No transportation spell had ever felt like  _ this _ . All was normal at first, distance spinning around him, and then Jareth felt a sickening wrench as if he were a thrown ball, batted off course. He landed on his rump on orange sand, with scrawny black trees twisting toward the sky on either side.

Blinking in shock, he beheld Umardelin proper, the Labyrinth laid out before him. Miles of twining stone and hedge paths, a misty forest, and in the distance the ragged city of the goblins, and the castle where he would’ve  _ thought _ he would land. It looked half a ruin even from here.

Jareth took stock of himself. He had only his riding clothes and the crop in his hand. None of the things he would’ve wanted to take on a journey, such as a seeing-crystal, or any amulets or talismans. No weapons, either, his bow and sword had gone to the armory when he dismounted. The small knife in his boot was an affectation, with a blade barely the length of his thumb.

He’d thought they got away with it, he really did. And now he knew he should’ve told his parents immediately on sobering up, the morning after the play. Jareth had hidden the foolish deed because he didn’t want to see that look of disappointment in his father’s eyes, or hear another of his mother’s lectures on responsibility. No harm was done, after all. And again, he thought they’d got away with it.

Jareth laughed bitterly at his own misfortune, and to his shock heard it echoed. He scrambled to his feet as goblins came out of the undergrowth. The ugliest of all fae races, they were short and squatty, with bulbous irregular features. All of those bulging or beady eyes were fixed on him, and their laughter was mocking.

“Well then,” he said, sweeping his arch gaze over them. “I suppose you’ve turned out to greet your new king?”

The goblins grinned in disturbing unison. Their discolored teeth looked very sharp. “Kingy?” one of them chirped, and the rest sniggered.

Oh gods, not only were they disgusting, they were stupid too. “Yes, I have the misfortune to be your king,” he snapped. “Now, if you’re not too backward to understand the concept, I require a guide to my rightful throne.”

They laughed at him, and Jareth felt anger growing underneath the consternation and disgust. “You’s no king,” a goblin growled.

“Goblins don’ts need no king,” another added.

“Well, I don’t need a miserable lot like you, but that is my fate and yours,” Jareth shot back. “Now, which of you will guide me through the Labyrinth?”

More raucous laughter. “Oh, we’s guides you,” one said, hopping closer. “To’s the feast!”

“A coronation feast, how delightful,” Jareth said, shuddering at the thought of goblin cuisine. “Well then, get on with it.”

“He saids get on with it!” a goblin crowed, and all of a sudden they lunged at him.

Before Jareth had time to react, sharp teeth and claws were pricking through his breeches. The little bastards were  _ biting _ him, hell, they were climbing him to bite afresh! He lashed about with the crop and danced in place, madly trying to dislodge them.

Something  _ hot _ clasped his calf, and Jareth saw that one of the bigger goblins wore iron armor. And was trying to pull him down. He remembered the last king – Thydus, that was his name – the poor devil was killed and eaten by goblins. 

Or was he eaten alive, devoured by unruly subjects who seemed immune to iron’s fatal kiss?

Fear joined anger, and Jareth was sorcerer enough to wind them both together and feed them into his magic.  _ “Stop!” _ he roared, swinging the crop around like a staff, using it as a makeshift focus. Raw power spilled from it, drawing a line of iridescent fire about him, which forced the goblins away as it expanded.

They fell back, eyes wide as his power pulsed around him, but Jareth felt no triumph. Only a deep chill. All his life, the magic he worked had come from Etaron, kingdom of his birth and to whose crown he was heir. No more. The shield he’d just created came solely from  _ himself _ , from his personal energy. And there was not very much left after what he’d just done.

He was king here now, Umardelin’s magic should be his to use. He’d learned a few things from his grandmother, and under her guidance had tapped the power of Astolwyr. He reached for Umardelin now, as Iswyniel had taught him, and found … nothing.

Worse than nothing, a frigid absence, as if this land were as devoid of magic as the world Above. That couldn’t be true.

It hardly mattered. Whether there was no power, or it was barred from him, Jareth had only himself to rely on. And the lack of magic scared him far more than the lack of weapons.

All of those realizations and calculations happened in seconds, as the goblins watched him uncertainly. He  _ had _ to back them down, if they came at him again they might just kill him. Thank the gods he’d played enough cards to have a damned good bluff. “Traitorous scum,” he snarled, letting his eyes flare opal. “I ought to magic the skins off you and make myself a rug to line my path! Begone, lest you taste my wrath again!”

They scattered, and Jareth breathed a sigh of relief, looking at the castle with resentment. This curse grew heavier by the moment, yet he might as well get on with it. Jareth stalked down the hill to the high walls of the Labyrinth, and saw no gate by which to enter. Carefully, he reached out with magic-honed senses, trying to uncover any illusion … and found nothing.

His temper, never particularly mild, had frayed badly over the last hour. “Bugger all this,” Jareth snarled. It cost him nothing to change to the owl, and his long wings beat firmly against the dry air, carrying him up above the sandstone wall. On the other side was a long unbroken corridor, and past that, the stone maze.

Jareth was in no mood to play games. The source of the kingdom’s power must be in the castle, so he flew toward it directly. It would be a long flight under the hot sun, but he wanted to get this over with and take proper possession of his kingdom as swiftly as possible.

He’d barely covered the first stretch of stone maze when he saw a dark cloud arise from the distant forest. Jareth paused, hovering in place, and saw it swirl toward him menacingly. A chill raced over his feathers as he recognized the enormous flock of crows. Even ordinary crows could be a nuisance to his owl-shape, but these seemed like no mere birds. A palpable air of threat raced before them, and he dropped into the maze, returning to man form.

They attacked him anyway, pecking as viciously as the goblins had bitten, and Jareth was loath to use his dwindling magic to drive them away. He smacked at them with the crop, ducking to protect his face, but nothing stopped them. At last he was forced to run blindly, with swooping crows driving their sharp beaks into his shoulders and snatching at his hair. He found an overhang to shelter beneath, and the crows departed, cawing derisively.

Jareth swore pungently. He could not fly, and thus would have to run the entire miserable Labyrinth on foot. That could take  _ hours _ . As a crown prince, he was unaccustomed to such exertion unless it was part of an activity he enjoyed and initiated. This felt suspiciously like  _ work _ .

Still, he wasn’t going to be able to tap into Umardelin’s power to protect himself, or to even contact his parents and let them know he was all right, until he reached that damned castle. Sullenly, he stomped off to begin the journey.

 

 


	5. Kwenkwe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foul language ahead. This one hurt to write, folks.

Five days later, Jareth staggered out of the largest trash heap he’d ever seen, and glowered at the gates of the Goblin City. His hair was plastered to his head by a sudden rain, and every inch of his body was scratched, bruised, or battered. He had been without food the entire time, and when the downpour started that morning, he’d been so pathetically glad of fresh water that he’d danced for joy. He had actually been reduced to drinking from a sandy puddle, at one point.

In the forest, he had whittled a branch into a spear after encountering creatures who tried to pull his head off his shoulders. With that in his right hand and his crop, still functioning as a focus for what magic he dared to use, in his left, he approached the gates. There were guards posted, but one look at his face and they fled inside, leaving the gates ajar.

Jareth stormed in, barely noticing the city around him. Goblins scattered from his path, raw anger bleeding out in swirls of iridescence around him. Ahead lay the castle, its enormous doors bound shut by iron bars. Jareth marched up to them, slammed down the spear, and pointed with his riding crop. “I am Jareth, son of Deruthiel and Cadelinyth, son of Etaron, born to rule and commanded by the High King to rule _here!_ I demand that you _open!_ ” His voice rose to a bellow, and the great doors quivered.

“Didja try knockin’?” a goblin voice whispered, and Jareth snarled. He lifted the crude spear and struck it against the doors.

Power flowed out, Umardelin’s power, swirling around him in deep blue mists. More power than Etaron had, even under his mother’s patient nurturing. Jareth swallowed, and did _not_ snatch at it. Instead he let a tendril of his own magic brush against the kingdom’s, and thought, _If I cannot enter the castle, I am doomed. I will do whatever must be done, including flying through a window despite the damned crows. This is my realm now._

He almost felt an echo, as if Umardelin had its own voice, and it was no more pleased to have him than he was to have it. But the High King’s fiat made this a necessity, and the doors swung open grudgingly.

Jareth stepped inside, blinking against the dimness, and saw a half-dozen servants of various low fae and human races gathered uncertainly there. They did not seem hostile, at least, and he gave them a slight bow. “Your new king apologizes for the delays in his arrival,” he told them. “Ready my chambers, draw me a bath, and send up such food and drink as you have available.”

It was not an unreasonable demand, and both parents had drilled into him the necessity of treating one’s servants well. Loyalty was worth far more than fear, and brought greater security. At least until he could take the measure of their service, and find out how competent they were, it was best to handle them gently. Disobedience or laziness could be rightfully punished later.

Within the hour, Jareth was sunk in a hot bath, eating a thick stew of beans and vegetables, and drinking rough young wine. Hardly a royal repast, but after five days of hunger and thirst, it was divine. He set himself to polish off the bottle, and made a mental note to find out where the cellars were. Surviving this hell certainly deserved a drink.

But first, once he was presentable again, he used the magic he’d gathered to himself to create a seeing crystal, and called out to the one at home in Etaron. Jareth expected it would take time for an answer, yet his mother’s anxious face filled the crystal immediately. “Jareth?”

“Mother,” he sighed, feeling again the ache of his journey through the Labyrinth. Part of him yearned to go home to her, to let her card her fingers through his hair and tell him all would be well. Most of him, though, knew that was both impossible, and more than he deserved. So he only said, “I wished to let you know I arrived at the castle beyond the Goblin City, and am well.”

“Thank the gods,” his father sighed, looking over Della’s shoulder. “We had no word of what had happened, once you left.”

His mother, however, had simply pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. To Jareth’s shock, he realized she was holding back tears. “I thought you were dead,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Mama, no,” Jareth pleaded, reverting to childhood names. “No, I’m all right, you needn’t cry. I was stuck in the Labyrinth, I could not summon the magic to call upon you. It has … it has been a trial, even to get here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

She looked up then, and her eyes were blazing between white gold and iron gray. “You damned well _ought_ to be sorry,” Della snarled, in a voice that shook with both fury and despair. “Jareth, you idiot, you feckless drunkard fool, you arrogant ass, you … you … how could you be so _fucking stupid?!_ ”

In his fifty years, Jareth had never once heard his mother swear, and that particular oath falling from her lips shocked him to stammering silence. Della raged on, “I know you were drunk, I know your damned idiot friends egged you on, I know you think you’re smarter than everyone else Underground _or_ Above, but even so, you bloody well should have _told us_ when you sobered up the morning after! We could’ve _done_ something, you could’ve fallen on the High King’s mercy and the lot of you might’ve only gotten your hands slapped for foolishness! Because you tried to conceal it, because he had to hunt you down, that pack of knaves you run with have all been turned into donkeys and sentenced to work in the king’s mines for a century! You stupid little boy, even now you could be dragging a cart and feeling the overseer’s lash!”

“Except Sevinder and Urylas,” Thiel put in. “Since they portrayed Oberon and Titania, they were turned into frogs and will reside in the cess pit behind the High King’s castle for a century.”

“And you call _your_ lot a trial,” Della growled. “If I could set my hands on you, Jareth, I’d beat some sense into you! And I don’t mean a spanking as you had when you were a boy, I’d take a stick and beat you bloody for this! Without your magic they couldn’t have gotten into so much trouble!”

“You’re a little late for the beating bloody,” Jareth snapped back. He had expected castigation, and sorrow, but not this fury. Not once in his entire life had his mother been so angry with him, and he reacted with wounded pride. “This damned kingdom made me run the Labyrinth to even _get_ to the castle, set crows on me to keep me from flying, the bloody goblins attacked me as soon as they saw me, I hadn’t eaten in five days, and I still can’t use Umardelin’s magic! Not to mention, mine is the only sentence without a limit!”

“ _For five days I thought my only son was_ _ **dead**_ _!_ ” Della shouted, and now the tears sprang forth. “What is that compared to mere pain and hunger? I’d have done it all _for_ you if I could, you pig-headed idiot, I’d sooner _my_ blood be shed than yours, I’d’ve gone to the mines for you or run that damned maze in your stead, and I might’ve been able to _fix_ this if you hadn’t fucking _lied_ to me about it!”

“Enough,” Thiel said, and put a quelling hand on Della’s shoulder. She scrubbed away the tears angrily, as Thiel looked into the crystal at his son. Though he had not raised his voice, Jareth saw the new silver threading his hair and beard, and winced. That was _his_ doing, and he did not need to hear his father castigate him to know it.

“I never meant to cause you both any pain,” he pleaded.

Thiel sighed. “But you did so nonetheless. And rather than tell us the truth, you hid it like a coward, so now you must live with the consequences. We will help you all we can, son, but until you master Umardelin neither of us can travel there. There is too much unrest in Etaron, with its crown prince snatched away.”

“Yes, I think the brothel workers may riot for lack of custom,” Della said bitterly.

“At least you are alive,” Thiel continued. “You know in ordinary custom the price of your indiscretion would be death, for revealing us to mortals at large.”

Jareth found he had to wipe away tears of his own. “Yes, but the High King’s lawgiver said a crown prince may not be killed…”

“Don’t be any more stupid than you already are,” Della spat. “You live because you are the grandson of Iswyniel of Astolwyr, and the High King had no wish to unduly upset his cousin. He found that precedent to spare you – I’ve known princes to die for folly. All he would’ve needed to do was strip you of your rank first.”

“He can’t do that,” Jareth said, horrified.

Thiel laughed softly. “He made you a king, why can’t he unmake a prince? Or order me to disown you, and if I refused, banish all three of us and leave Etaron to my bastard cousin. Which thought _had_ occurred, mind you.”

“No,” Jareth said immediately. “When I saw the soldiers, I only wished to die with some honor, and hoped they would not force _you_ to be the hand that slew me, Father.”

“That, I’d die before I did,” Thiel replied with bald honesty. “And since you lived, try to remember some of that honor and courage, hmm? It’s easier to be brave for a moment, in face of terrible odds to stand like a hero. It’s not so easy to act with honor every day of one’s life, even in the boring hours.”

The crystal flickered, the small amount of power Jareth had lent it wavering. “I must go,” he said. “Mother, Father, I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I love you too,” Della said, her voice breaking again. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I was so terrified…”

“It’s all right,” he replied, reaching for the crystal as if he could reach through and take her hand. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I was a fool.”

“I love you too, son,” Thiel said, and the spell broke, the crystal popping like the bubble it resembled.

Jareth abruptly sat down right there on the musty-smelling rushes. It had taken more power than he was accustomed to using to create the crystal … and that was not even half of why he felt so drained.

Thiel was disappointed in him. He had not needed to say it, had not needed to rail and curse and rage like Della, but the disappointment was clear. And it burned Jareth to the marrow. He and his father were not much alike, in taste or temper or looks, but at least he had been a powerful sorcerer and a good prince. A worthy successor. Now … now he was the Goblin King. And he was so because of his wasteful wastrel ways.

And Della, oh, Della laid his heart open like a butcher’s blade. Not once in his entire life had Jareth been more than lightly scolded, swatted for impertinence or disobedience, told off for conduct unbecoming a prince. He had never imagined his mother could be so plainly furious with him. Seeing and hearing and feeling her wrath aimed at _him_ was like being burnt by ice, not merely painful but an outrage against the very order of the world, something that fundamentally _should not_ happen. Yet it had, and he had brought it on himself.

To impress his friends. Gods, she was right, he _was_ stupid. He and Thorvald were the only crown princes of the lot, and Thorvald’s parents wouldn’t let him go Above. He’d been the only one of rank in their little group, the most powerful magician, and what need had he to _impress_ the others? If they were truly his friends, they would be so regardless. And if they weren’t, why risk himself so for their applause? Was he truly so vain?

All Jareth wanted to do at that moment was curl up and cry. But a king cannot do so, not in his first days in the realm, with servants and subjects watching to see what sort of king he might be. So instead, he went in search of the cellars to get utterly, completely, stinking drunk. _That_ , at least, was a common enough royal pastime.

 


	6. Swexs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jareth gets some help. Finally.
> 
> Be careful what you wish for...

Two days later, Jareth was awakened at an unholy hour by a sharp voice telling him to get up. “Lea’ me ‘lone,” he groaned, pulling the covers up. “’M king here, an’ I didn’t ask to be woken.”

To his immense shock, he felt the toe of someone’s boot applied strategically to the base of his spine, and then an abrupt shove that rolled him out of the bed entirely. It also  _ hurt _ , damn whoever had the gall to assault him so! Sputtering with rage, he fought free of the blankets, his head pounding viciously. “I’ll have you drawn and quartered!” he roared, scrambling to his feet. 

Iswyniel, the Sorceress of Astolwyr, was not impressed. “Do you even have the horses for that?” she scoffed. “Shut your mouth, boy, and be glad I didn’t rouse you with a bucket of ice-water. Or the help of your servants, who are surely  _ most _ impressed by the winesop they’ve acquired as king.”

Jareth blinked at his grandmother. The room swayed around him, but that was probably the stash of liquor he’d discovered last night, a welcome anodyne to the rough young wines in the cellar. Finally, he managed to say, “Grandmother? But … what are you doing here? Yea gods, how did you get  _ in _ ?!”

She snorted at him. “What I’m doing ought to be obvious: rescuing your stupid feckless arse, boy. And as for how I got in, the gates were open. I told your people I was your assistant, and they showed me right in to your bedroom.  _ You _ never felt the intrusion, which tells me all I need to know about how well you’ve begun your duties as king.”

He glowered at her, but bit his tongue to keep his first, sarcastic response behind his teeth. This morning, like the entire week, was already starting out awful, and Jareth didn’t want to make it any worse.

And if anyone could make it worse, it would be Iswyniel.

Still, she had no interest here, and she was one of the most powerful sorcerers among the fae. He could confide in her safely, and if anyone would know how to help him, she would. “I have no sense of the land at all,” Jareth admitted sullenly.

Her fine brows arched. “Are you surprised? Did you think the High King’s word would grant you the Unmastered so lightly? Yea gods, your father has more wit than that!”

“My father rules a blood-bound kingdom,” Jareth growled. “And I was raised in the expectation of inheriting Etaron, which would accept me for that bloodline.”

“Etaron is gentler, but even she would not grant you all the powers you were due until you proved worthy of them,” she commented. “Think of this like wooing a woman, Jareth. You certainly know enough on that score. Just because you were cast into Umardelin doesn’t mean she will open to you.”

As caustic as the words were, there was a spark of realization that penetrated Jareth’s hangover. “So this kingship is like an arranged marriage, then,” he said, startled. “Neither of us would have chosen the other, but now we’re both trapped.”

“Aye,” Iswyniel said, with frost in the words, and Jareth remembered a little too late how she’d come by her power: fleeing from just a such a marriage that had turned abusive. “And like a woman bartered into marriage, the kingdom risks more than you do, in taking you to heart. It’s her life and her power over which she’s granting you command. You have your work cut out. Etaron is like a soft-hearted maid in a girlish tale: so long as you do not harm her, and show at least a little competence, she would let you rule for the sake of your blood. Umardelin is a woman of another sort; she’ll turn and cut you down as soon as look at you.”

“Ah, gods,” he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. There was no escaping this punishment, and he’d already landed himself out of the realm’s favor. But there was also no point in complaining to Iswyniel, who brooked no such nonsense. More than once in his boyhood she had bespelled him to sleep for asking her too many questions.

“Bathe and dress,” she told him. “I already asked for the castle and village records to be brought up for review, so we’ll go over that at breakfast. You’ll be meeting with your staff and stewards tomorrow, once we see what the official records say. I won’t be surprised to find discrepancies.”

A hot bath sounded decent, though breakfast would be by necessity something mild. His belly had not appreciated last night’s overindulgence. “I shall hope they do not wonder at an  _ assistant _ who plans my days for me.”

Iswyniel narrowed her eyes at him. “For your sake, in front of your people, I will  _ try _ not to treat you as the idiot whelp you are. If they realize what I truly am, it will because you haven’t the sense to nod and look regal and let me teach you how to do your job.”

“I suppose I’m meant to thank you,” he growled.

She actually laughed. “You think I’m here for  _ your _ sake? You’re a fool twice over, for the offense and for trying to hide it, and if you’re blindly stubborn enough to let the goblins eat you, that makes you a fool thrice, and good riddance to you. Yet your mother would weep to lose you, and your grandfather would as well. For them, I’ll give you a hand toward saving yourself –  _ if _ you’re smart enough to shut your mouth and take it.”

Jareth bit his tongue, again, and said quietly, “Thank you, Grandmother.”

To his everlasting surprise, she patted him on the shoulder gently. “You are welcome, grandson. Now go bathe, you smell like a pickled weasel.”

 


	7. Sextam

Once refreshed, Jareth headed down to the dining room, where his grandmother sat perusing a stack of musty old books. One of the kitchen servants hurried out with a bowl of steaming porridge, which Jareth had to be grateful for despite its base plainness. ‘Plain’ was all his guts could handle, and it had been sweetened with honey and dried fruit. Iswyniel was eating the same, though distractedly.

“How looks it?” Jareth asked, spooning up more porridge.

“If these are accurate, you’ll have grain enough for a decade,” Iswyniel remarked. “But see here, the totals are the same for the last five years. Too much the same. Either it’s been reported wrongly, or you have the same grain sitting in the storerooms somewhere for years on end. Which _might_ be well enough, if it was properly stored, but the oldest grain ought to be used up first if there is a shortfall.”

Jareth  _ did _ know a bit about the running of a kingdom, keeping track of agricultural production and usage, and the reported amounts of wheat and barley looked suspicious to him as well. “That’s not the same hand reporting it, either,” he added.

“Which means it’s either a yearly official like the bailiff writing in his own totals, or the office of steward changes too frequently. Note: who keeps the records?” Iswyniel had a scrap of paper beside her, a quill hovering above it, and as she spoke the pen made a new entry for her. 

Jareth narrowed his eyes, taking stock of her. “Are you using Astolwyr’s magic or your own?” he asked.

Iswyniel arched her brow. “Astolwyr. I’m not queen here, yet I haven’t been locked out of my home power. And Umardelin has sense enough to know if she blocks me from using my realm, I might try to take command of her by brute force.”

“I was under the impression that brute force could not command this kingdom,” Jareth said, his tone brittle.

“You haven’t enough force to try,” Iswyniel said baldly. “Were you my age, as steeped in power as I am … I could give her a challenge, perhaps even take control for a time. I can feel her tasting every little spell I work, to see just how strong I am, and she’s smart enough to be careful. But then, even if I was foolish enough to try it, she has goblins in iron armor, so she’d get me sooner or later.”

“But she locks me out of Etaron,” he grumbled.

“That’s not Umardelin, that’s Etaron,” Iswyniel corrected. “Etaron is _angry_ , boy. Her crown prince was stolen and made king of another realm. Imagine a woman whose lover is wed to another, and know why you’re being scorned.”

“I didn’t choose this!” Jareth protested.

Iswyniel shrugged. “Etaron neither knows nor cares. Kingdoms are not  _ logical _ , Jareth. Whether you chose it or not, you were hers, and you left her.”

He made a rude noise then, but controlled the urge to fling his porridge at a wall in frustration. Knowing Iswyniel, she’d make him clean it up himself. By hand, without magic. Jareth settled for asking, “And how does one woo a kingdom? I doubt my considerable courting skills, to which you so pointedly referred, will transfer.”

“Well she won’t be impressed with the size of your prick, sadly, but keep wearing those breeches if they make you happy,” Iswyniel shot back. “I’m not sure what that leaves you with, other than sarcastic wit and good hair.”

“The sarcasm is genetic, I assure you,” Jareth growled.

Much to his surprise, she chuckled. “At least sarcasm denotes intelligence. That you likely got from my side; your father is too earnest. No, you court a kingdom by proving you’ll be a good king. Which means taking care of your people. We’ll need a complete and accurate inventory of foodstuffs and supplies. A census, as well. We must see to the fields and orchards, sort out your water source, find out what sort of livestock the villagers have. You do know there’s a village attached to the castle, don’t you?”

“You mean the Goblin City?” Jareth said, his eyebrows rising.

Iswyniel cut him a  _ look _ . “Not that. Goblins apparently do not make good farmers, though their city has smiths and other craftsmen aplenty. I mean the village behind the castle and city. I’ve seen humans and dwarves, and a few other fae there.”

“How much of a tour did you get?” Jareth asked, affronted now. It was bad enough to be spurned by his kingdom, without having to watch his grandmother get treated like a treasured guest.

She replied dismissively, “I sent a seeing crystal. You know the spell. Have you bothered to use it?”

“To tell my mother I lived,” Jareth growled. “Do remember, I am working off of my own power alone.”

“And using a hunting crop for a focus, I see,” Iswyniel said, glancing at him. “Give it here.”

He hesitated only for a second. If she meant to destroy it, there was little he could do at this point to stop her. Building a proper focus for his magic, whether crystal, wand, or scepter, would take time.

To Jareth’s surprise, Iswyniel merely looked over the hunting crop. Its handle was carved ash, the shaft was lithe cane, wrapped in fine doeskin leather. Iswyniel looked it over, nodded, and passed it back. “It’ll serve. You’ve used it enough already, it will be easier to refine the crop than start anew.”

“It makes a serviceable weapon,” Jareth admitted. “And speaking of weapons, we ought to survey the armory as well. I have only my knife.”

“Like as not, you and I cannot even enter the armory here,” Iswyniel pointed out. “The goblins’ weapons are of iron. We’ll sort you out a sword as well, but you’re better served letting them think you are a sorcerer only. If you ever need to use the sword, it will be best if they don’t know you can handle it.”

He nodded agreement and focused on the porridge, so as to eat it before it grew cold. Iswyniel went back to perusing the books, brushing dust off the pages. A moment later, she said, “Well this is interesting. Apparently there is a talisman of kingship which confers authority, not the crown itself.”

Jareth sat up, interested. “Good. The crown is presently serving as a nest for a pair of vultures, and given their dietary and excretory habits, I don’t want to place it on my head any time soon. I also doubt it would fit – it looks to be sized for a giant. So, where is this talisman?”

Iswyniel flipped the pages carefully. “It says that Thydus took it from the treasury and wore it about it his neck. There’s an illustration – note, copy this image.” Her quill rendered it swiftly, Jareth craning his neck to look. A simple enough design, silver and gold, with knotwork on the front. Once it was copied, Iswyniel said, “Let us check the treasury first, but I suspect he was wearing it when he died.”

They both finished their food, then went to find the castle treasury. A nervous young dwarf led them there, and would have scuttled off as soon the doors opened had Iswyniel not told him to remain. What was inside the treasury silenced her and Jareth both.

He had suspected, seeing the disrepair of the castle and the disorganization of the goblins, to find the treasury nearly empty. Perhaps some copper or silver bars, a few semi-precious gems, but no real wealth. This…

Stacks of gold coins had fallen over into untidy piles, and sacks of jewels had torn open to spill their contents as well. Ostentatious silver and gold jewelry, worked with many fine gems, lay atop some of the heaps. Jareth stepped inside, carefully, wondering if this was an illusion. He picked up a delicate gold lady’s comb, set with pearls, and examined it closely. The one thing he did not see was anything like a talisman.

Iswyniel lifted a handful of coins and let them run through her fingers. “It’s real,” she said at last, the gold chiming prettily as it fell. “And all of it mundane. We won’t find the talisman here.”

“Still, this is better than I thought,” Jareth said, heartening. Etaron had more treasure rooms than this, but there were jewels here to rival his home.

“It’s worse than _I_ thought,” Iswyniel replied. “Where is this money coming from, with no king for so long? And with such a checkered history of rulers? I would’ve thought to find it all empty. You must have a very honest chancellor, and some source of riches I’ve not yet seen. I hope to gods no one here is trading in illegal goods.” 

The dwarf at the door made to slink off, and Jareth rounded on him. “You. What’s your name?”

He muttered something unintelligible, and Jareth said, “Well, Heggle, what do you know of the castle’s wealth?”

“Hoggle,” the dwarf said, cringing as he did so. “Erm, well, I don’t know much. I’m just the junior gardener’s assistant.”

“And why does a junior gardener need an assistant?” Iswyniel asked silkily, her sharp blue eyes fixed on the dwarf.

With two high fae paying keen attention to him, he looked almost panicked. “It’s just a job, I just does what they tells me, I dunno nothing ‘bout nothing!” And then he bolted.

Jareth made to run after him, but Iswyniel stopped him. “Let him go. We shall see to the gardens, as well. I suspect something there is amiss. In the mean time, the court records are missing. Let us go down to the archives.”

That made him sigh. Even in Etaron, which was well-run and had chroniclers aplenty, the archives were boring, full of the smell of leather bookbindings and old paper. But Iswyniel was right, it needed to be done.

He started to follow her out when the barest hint of a shine caught his eye. Jareth turned, and saw a clear quartz crystal ball, sitting among some faceted emeralds. It was a trifle smaller than the seeing-crystals he called up, but it would be useful – and such perfect clarity was surpassing rare. He caught it up, and turned it in the lamplight.

Iswyniel had turned back to look. “That will go a long way toward improving your focus,” she said. “Have you the power to spare, to bind it?”

By way of answer, Jareth set the crystal atop the handle of his hunting crop, and spoke a word in the old tongue to it. It flashed iridescent, then settled, now permanently bound to the crop.

Iswyniel nodded. “Neatly done. Now come, let’s look for those records.”

 


	8. Oxtu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jareth sets out to discover the state of Umardelin's domestic situation. How bad could it be?

No one had held a proper court in Umardelin for at least a decade. There had been hallmotes, village justice, problems sorted out by and with peers. But no higher authority to which the citizens of Umardelin could appeal, no new laws enacted. Jareth was not pleased at all to learn that, after spending two hours combing through fragile books and scrolls in a narrow airless room bedecked with cobwebs.

“You’ll hold court in a week,” Iswyniel said, closing the book in her hands and coughing at the dust it raised. “We’ll announce it today, and that will give them time to sort out what they’ll bring to you.”

“And I’m interviewing the staff tomorrow,” he sighed. “I suppose you have plans for the afternoon as well?”

“Reviewing the stores,” Iswyniel said, and set off briskly. Jareth had to trot to keep up, reflecting with annoyance that she seemed to have limitless energy, even by fae standards.

Then again, she hadn’t spent the last two days drunk, and the five days before _that_ scrabbling for food and water in the bedamned Labyrinth.

They found the cellars and storerooms soon enough, and Iswyniel cast a glance at the barrels of wine and casks of beer and ale in the cellar below the buttery. “You haven’t done _too_ much damage here,” she remarked. “Your butler at least is doing his job. It’s as well you have such well-stocked cellars. I expect you’re going to need it.”

“For once I agree with you,” Jareth sighed.

She flicked him in the ear. “Not for you, you drunkard. As rewards. I suspect you’re going to need to demand some boon-works of your people, and they will work harder and resent you less if you feast them for it.”

“I was thinking of that, too,” Jareth said sullenly. “Given the state of things so far, I shudder to think what we’ll find in the fields and farms.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be a surprise,” Iswyniel chuckled, and moved onward.

The root-cellar had plenty of turnips, onions, and beets, but they looked rather sorry, the onions trying to sprout and the turnips quite shriveled. There were a few barrels of apples, stored down here in the cool dark, but they smelled of cider and so were surely rotting. Jareth scowled at the lot as he and Iswyniel moved back up from the cellars, to the more immediate kitchen stores.

The pantry was not well-stocked, with fewer dishes than were needed to serve a typical household. The foodstuffs there were meager and plain, mostly coarse bread, peas, and beans. Iswyniel’s quill made a note to find out who the pantler was, and if this scarcity was because of neglect or the simple fact that they hadn’t needed to serve more than the castle’s own staff.

The larder was nearly bare, and Jareth winced. At any given time back home, there would be game and livestock hanging up in the cool of the room, barrels of live fish and eels, crocks of jams and preserves, and ropes of sausages as well as other smoked and cured meats. Here, he saw only some rabbits and an old ham, very few crocks, and no fish at all. “The larderer is fired,” he said, shaking his head at the dismal scene.

“Even the best cannot stock what is not brought in to them,” Iswyniel replied. “Give whoever it is a month’s trial under better management. Note: we need a hunt, or two if the game can support it. I won’t be surprised to find poaching a common past-time. And we must find out how many livestock the castle holds.”

“I have a dreadful feeling that I’m going to be spending a lot of money on foodstuffs,” Jareth grumbled. “This … this is ridiculous. What are the people living on? Pease porridge and potted hares?”

Iswyniel touched his arm, and when he looked at her, she smiled. “Now _that_ is a king, thinking of your people before yourself.”

“ _Someone_ must look after them,” Jareth said, sweeping a hand through the air to indicate the sorry state of the food stores. “Clearly no one else is doing so.”

“We need to check the granary, too,” Iswyniel said. “And the mill, wherever it may be. Wells and fishponds. But first, let us stop into the kitchen and find out who the staff are.”

They did so, and Jareth was reassured to find that the kitchen was clean and spacious. A large cauldron on the hearth had savory stew bubbling away, and a young human man was vigorously scrubbing the ladles and dishes while a brace of goblins licked up the last of the morning’s porridge. He dearly hoped that cauldron would be properly washed after.

Iswyniel glanced about, and eyed Jareth, quirking up a brow. He nodded; there should have been more staff. “Your pardon, young sir,” he said, and the boy scrubbing the plates yelped, dropped the lot, and tried to bow and salute at the same time.

“There’s no need for that,” Iswyniel said. “If we trust you to prepare our meals, we trust you not to have to bow and scrape every time we turn up in your kitchen. Be at ease.”

He swallowed, looking to Jareth worriedly. Jareth did his best to smile soothingly. “As I have taken possession of the kingdom, there are a few questions I need to ask. Have you the time to answer?”

“For you, Your Majesty, of course,” the young man said, wiping his hands off on his apron. “Err, I mean, I can answer all that I know.”

“Easy, I shall not ask more than that,” Jareth said. “First, what is your name? And who fills the offices of chef, pantler, butler, and larderer?”

The young man’s throat worked. “Um, that would be me, sire. Landon Greyfield.”

Iswyniel’s brows rose, as did Jareth’s. They had both assumed they were addressing a scullion or under-cook, not the chef himself. Nor that one person held all of those roles. Even in a small noble household, the procurement and management of food and drink were handled by someone other than the chef.

“Are you the ewer and launderer, too?” Jareth asked, surprised.

“No, that’s Margit,” he said, then added, “She helps with the cooking, sometimes, and she tries to keep up with the cleaning. But it’s hard, you see, with so few of us. We’re doing the best we can, and I know it’s not enough.”

“What happened to the staff?” Iswyniel asked.

Landon scowled then. “ _Thydus._ I was just a boy when it happened, newly made a page. King Thydus accused the marshal of conspiring against him, and then it was the steward, and the chamberlain, and next thing you know half the household staff had bolted over the borders before he finished building a gallows. Nobody wanted to swing, whether they’d committed the crimes or not.”

Jareth wanted to curse his predecessor, but kept his tone level. “What happened then?”

Landon shrugged. “Most of the remaining servants fled into the city. The goblins can be nasty, but not _that_ nasty. King Thydus was furious, and he attacked the Goblin City in search of them. That … ended badly for him.”

“As he well deserved, the fool,” Iswyniel sighed. “So, I take it some of the servants eventually returned to the castle, and tried to manage as best you could?”

“Well, yes,” Landon said. “There are only a handful of us. We can do better, I know we can.”

Jareth heard the anxiety behind the words, and it moved him. Servants in Etaron were properly respectful, but they did not cower like this. They knew their royals were fair, and trusted that their lives would never be in danger from madness or caprice. “You have already done better than any sane monarch could ask.”

“Agreed,” Iswyniel said. “And who is the seneschal or steward now?”

Landon shrugged. “There isn’t one. Nobody wanted the job. The only reason I’m in the kitchens is because everybody needs to eat, and a lot of us can’t stomach the goblins’ food. They like rat, and they eat it raw.”

Jareth shuddered; though he was part owl, he had never hunted in that form and eaten his supposedly natural prey. Mice simply weren’t part of a properly princely diet, in his view. Meanwhile Iswyniel asked, “So if there is no seneschal, who is in command?”

The boy looked flummoxed. “Err, nobody? Everybody just sort of does what needs doing, there’s nobody telling us to. I mean, the Gardeners’ Guild are the ones asking for stuff, usually, but it’s not like they could make anybody do anything, without a king. We’d just leave. There are other kingdoms out there. I thought about going, but I was born here. And somebody has to take care of the people who stayed.”

 _This one will make a steward,_ Jareth thought, but he said nothing yet of such a promotion. Meanwhile Iswyniel was saying, “We shall see about getting you some help. Thank you, Landon.”

They took their leave of him, and headed out. Once in the castle courtyard, Iswyniel murmured, “And what was the most interesting part of that?”

Jareth knew the answer. “There is a guild of gardeners … and I have not yet seen a garden. Very interesting.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Now let us look to the granary and the village.”

 


	9. Nowam

Another dwarf met the pair of them as they circled about the granary. That was a timbered building, raised on tall staddle stones, and there should have been steps hung on the outside to enable them to reach the door. Jareth and Iswyniel had just discovered the lack of those when the dwarf ambled into view. “’Elp ya?” he said.

“Yes, you may indeed assist your king,” Iswyniel said, before Jareth could snarl at the impertinence. “We wish to inspect the grain stores.”

“Aye, sure,” the dwarf said jovially, trotting forward. “And you’d be the Queen, yeah?”

“Not hardly,” Jareth scoffed.

“Merely an assistant,” Iswyniel replied, and schooled her features into a pleasant mask. To see that blank amiable expression on her face made Jareth feel faintly nauseous, as if he’d flown upside down. It simply wasn’t his grandmother … but then, she was pretending to be quite a bit less than she was. Vapid and friendly would serve. “Can you help us? It seems the steps have gone missing.”

“Ah, now that’s a problem,” the dwarf mused. “Hmm. Let me see. I think Bodri might’ve took ‘em, to be repaired, y’know. Can’t risk breakin’ an ankle in a fall, y’see?”

“Very wise,” Iswyniel said. “We shall wait, while you locate them.”

“Might take a while,” the dwarf warned, grinning obsequiously.

“We have time, good sir,” Iswyniel said, and sketched a curtsy. The dwarf bowed, and hustled off.

Jareth let out a sigh. “You know he won’t be back for hours,” he said.

“Good,” she replied, shaking herself, her typically cynical expression returning. “I have no intention of relying on him, anyway. Surely you and I can sort a way in.”

Jareth took another look. “I could jump up, but that door is locked, Grandmother. And the lock appears to be iron.”

She scoffed. “As dry as it is here, I’d think your grain would be in silos. Ah well. The iron lock does not surprise – dwarves and goblins both are immune. And you do seem to have rather more dwarves about than I would expect.”

“You haven’t seen the swamp, then,” Jareth told her. “Or the rainstorm I was stuck in. The ground dries quickly, but I still prefer to see the grain kept above it. As for the dwarves, I suspect this Gardeners’ Guild is full of them.”

“Then they’re running your kingdom, boy, and we know who might be our enemies,” Iswyniel replied. She’d circled the granary, a large and sturdy building, peering up at the narrow windows near its roof. Those were covered in cloth, and served only to let a cooling, drying breeze pass through. “I’d say give me a hand up to the door, but that lock will burn me worse than you. Here. Fly on up to the window, tear a hole in the cloth, and I’ll send a seeing crystal through. Then at least we can get a look at the grain.”

“And suppose Umardelin sets her crows on me?” Jareth said, his shoulders tensing at the memory. He couldn’t quite help glancing at the sky.

“I’ve known you to kill a wild boar with a boot knife, stop crying about the bloody birds,” Iswyniel scolded. And then, just as quickly, she relented. “Your grandfather despises them too. If they come, I’ll hold them off. Now get up there.”

Grumbling, he changed and flapped upward. The windows were screened with rough muslin, no equal to his talons, and he quickly ripped a hole in it. Iswyniel tossed a seeing crystal his way – he resented how easy they were for her to conjure, when he had to think about how much power he spent on  _anything_ – and he fluttered down to return to man form.

Iswyniel held a second, larger crystal in her right hand, her left moving slightly to control the flight of the first. The expression on her face told him all he needed to know. “How bad?” Jareth asked.

“You have plenty of wheat and barley, not as much oats,” Iswyniel said. “It seems as though none of the grain was properly dried before it was stored, though. Look at this.”

Jareth peered into the crystal. Inside the granary were several large, deep bins, each containing a different type of grain. He could see mounds of wheat most clearly at the moment, as that was where the other crystal was hovering. The entire surface of the bin was covered in a disgusting mat of multicolored fungus. “Hideous,” he muttered, shuddering.

“That is no longer fit even for beasts,” Iswyniel, shaking her head. “The barley is not quite so bad, but I would not eat it unless I was near starving. I do believe they’re using the oats, and now I regret having porridge this morning, but that looks the least damaged of all. Worse, the seed stock is moldy as well.”

Jareth could only shake his head in horrified disbelief. Letting the stored grain get moldy was the kind of negligence for which his parents would have banished the persons responsible. Letting the seed stock – not just surplus food, but the source of  _next year’s_ food – get spoiled such as this was a criminal offense.

Iswyniel was still using the small crystal to peer into every grain bin. Some were empty – there was room for more storage than this. “It did not get this bad in a season, either. I suspect the bulk of this grain has been sitting for two years or more.”

“Then what are the people actually eating?” Jareth asked, standing back.

“This year’s crop, perhaps, with none going into storage. Or, given the state of your treasury, they may be buying grain from someone else. _Something_ here is selling very well.” Iswyniel recalled the smaller crystal from inside the granary, and collapsed the pair of them together. “Perhaps we’ll find some answers in the village.”

A narrow path led them down among the fields, terraced to account for the slope of the land. Jareth expected to find grains or vegetables growing in long rows arranged in seeming haphazard fashion. Etaron’s village fields often appeared chaotic from the sky, with a patch running north to south, another patch running east to west, and a third running diagonal to them both. Della had explained to him once that the rows were arranged according to the best drainage, and other peculiarities of the land best known to the villagers who had plowed and reaped there for generations. Trying to knock it all flat for the sake of orderly rows would only result in an inefficient harvest.

What he saw in Umardelin was too much land lying fallow, with scrawny weeds and bits of clover growing up. The crops that had been planted showed some signs of damage, from weather or stray animals, which in a well-run kingdom would have been swiftly addressed. Umardelin, he was coming to realize with keen dismay, would not even count as _poorly_ run by his parents’ standards. “Why do the people let this happen?” he asked, frustrated.

“Not all of them have,” Iswyniel said. “Some of them are the _cause_ of it. And some, who could not bear it, have left. The remainder feel as if nothing can be done, or at least, nothing _they_ can do will have any effect.”

“They could do _something_ ,” Jareth insisted.

Iswyniel shot him a look that had him shying away in anticipation of a blow, but she did not raise her hand. “Thus speaks a man born to privilege. You have never known true despair,” and when he moved to argue, she touched his arm gently, continuing, “though yes, do not take umbrage, I expect you’ve made its acquaintance since you arrived here. You do not  _know_ despair, you have not risen and eaten and walked and worked and slept with it at your side, holding your hand every moment. Despair builds the highest walls and digs the deepest moats, all in our minds. It steals our wits and strengths, besides.

“You and I, we royals know that something _could_ be done here. The people do not know it. They have lived under a despot who would kill them for no reason, and under neglect that left them entirely to their own devices. Anything they do could backfire, any attempt to better themselves may be going to line someone else’s coffers, and there are too few of them now to get anything but the most urgent tasks accomplished. They are like galled oxen, pulling only from fear of the whip, seeing nothing but the ground under their noses.”

Jareth had to stop. He knew the stories of his grandmother – being fae royalty meant having few secrets, at least once the bards got hold of you. But he had always known her as stern, imposing, even frightening. A powerful sorceress and cunning queen, respected by all. This discussion reminded him uncomfortably that she had a past in common with some few people he’d seen at Etaron’s court. His mother dealt with those cases, when a woman could not dissuade a man from pursuing her, or a wife ran out of excuses for her bruises, or the rarer occasions when a husband had to shamefully admit his scars weren’t from brawling.

Etaron tolerated no such abuse, and with magic, truth could be absolutely known, so there were no false accusations or convictions. Rape was answered by castration and banishment. The sort of beatings Iswyniel referred to were typically handled by a cunning spell that caused any blow struck to reverberate on the aggressor – and banishment. No one in Etaron turned a blind eye to it, and on the very rare occasion when the accused tried to justify their cruelty, Queen Cadelinyth showed that owls were not known for their mercy.

In Astolwyr, Jareth knew, the sentence was liable to be death. Iswyniel would allow no woman in her lands to suffer as she once had. And yet, all his life he had never really understood the hopelessness that was part of such cruelty. In Jareth’s mind, his grandmother’s husband had hurt her, she’d learned magic, turned on him, and left to found her own kingdom. Now he understood that there were probably long, miserable years between the first beating and the last, years the songs glossed over. She knew despair too well.

He swallowed, and said, “Remind me why you never killed that bastard Falemar?”

Iswyniel turned to look at him, and laughed. “That was a thousand years ago, boy. Wine killed him, and rich food, and the fact that he had no discipline in either. I lived to see him disinherited from his kingdom, and reduced to cowering when my name was spoken. My life is not about him. It never was.” She tipped her head, and grinned, a look he’d never seen on her. “Although, I admit to taking a little  _too_ much delight in the fact that somehow, anytime we were at the same event outdoors, some bird would fly by and soil him. Right in the face, with pinpoint accuracy.”

Jareth had to laugh. “Grandfather is not so philosophical about it, then.”

“Your grandfather would have put his eyes out with his bare hands right before slitting his throat, if he’d followed his instincts,” Iswyniel replied. “This is not about me, grandson. I simply know the smell of despair, and this place reeks of it. You have much work to do.”

He sighed, and raked a hand through his hair. “I wish I could blame that stench on the bog, but I see what you mean. Onward, then. Let us finish this tour, and then work to setting things to rights.”

 

 


	10. Dekam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe things will be better in the village ... nah, too much to ask.

The story was much the same elsewhere. The village beyond the castle was populated by a mix of humans, dwarves, and half-fae. Their houses were small and sturdy, but Jareth could see that there had once been many more houses which had fallen to ruin. Chickens ran freely about the village, and a few goats and sheep gathered in the meadows beyond, all typical of village life. Things in Etaron were more organized, with pastures fenced by hedges to contain the livestock, but Umardelin’s free-roaming system was still in use in many kingdoms. The state of technology in the fae realms lagged behind the world Above, as kingdoms only updated what was necessary.

“I see no oxen,” Iswyniel murmured. “And the castle stable is empty, so there are no horses. What are they using to draw the plows?” Jareth nodded thoughtfully.

Once they convinced the villagers that they meant no harm and were not here to levy any new taxes, they learned that King Thydus had confiscated the horses years ago, and none had been brought in since. What happened to them, no one knew. As for oxen, those had been eaten last winter. “Th’ food run out,” one man told them, nervously shifting his feet. “We knowed it would hurt us come spring, but ‘twas eat ‘em or starve. Th’ night trolls he’ped us w’ plowin’, thank the gods. We  _had_ to eat th’ oxen, yer worships – we cain’t all stomach rat.”

“Nor should you have to,” Jareth said, his blood boiling in fury. The grain spoilage was bad, but this? People were on the brink of _starving_. If that guild was running the kingdom, why hadn’t they done something? Surely gardeners knew how to grow sufficient food for their people.

“Who is the reeve here?” Iswyniel asked, using the same placid mask as before.

“No reeve’s been elected for five years runnin’,” one of the half-fae told them. 

“Then who is in charge?” Jareth asked. He knew, of course, that they were officially leaderless, having read the court records. But he expected _some_ kind of informal arrangement.

“That’d be me,” a harsh voice croaked, as an old woman stomped up to them, leaning heavily on her cane. Jareth could not tell, at first glance, whether she was fae or human or just a tallish dwarf; she had a face like a withered apple, and eyes sharp as flints. 

“Well met, milady,” Jareth said, sketching her a slight bow which the other villagers reflexively returned, while the woman just glowered and planted her cane. Not returning his bow was a dangerous move; it was a deliberate snub of his authority. Jareth’s first instinct would have been to snake his magic around her and force her into submission… 

… but he was not as great a fool as he had been last week. And he remembered well his parents’ warnings, dealing with angry peasants. ‘ _A man who has nothing to lose will fight like a thousand devils, for he no longer fears what might happen to him,’_ Thiel had chided, when Jareth argued some over-merciful ruling.

The bald fact was, the peasants outnumbered him even in this depleted realm, and most of them could bear iron weapons. Hells, Thydus had been slain by  _goblins_ . This was no time to insist on proper respect from one old woman, and lose whatever goodwill he had among the rest.

Meanwhile, she was speaking, and it was as well he’d already realized he could not afford to harm her. “Not your lady, you pretentious young fop, and not well-met, either. The last swanky fae bastard that High King sent here is the reason we’re in this mess now. The lot of you can go bugger yourselves, for all I care.” She thrust her chin out, and slammed the cane down like a staff again, daring him to move her. “Go on, kill me for it. If you don’t, the next winter will.”

“Ma, don’t,” one of the men protested – but he didn’t _quite_ move to stand between her and the two high fae, which told Jareth all he needed to know. They truly expected him to kill for an insult, and again he damned Thydus. Etaron’s people were deeply respectful, but they did not live in such fear! “She don’t mean nothin’ by it, your worships.”

The old woman curled her lip, but before she could respond, Iswyniel stepped in. And Jareth was aware that his grandmother now looked and sounded older than she had even moments ago, deliberately mirroring the eldest villager. “I’m quite certain she means every word, and with reason,” Iswyniel said smoothly. “What have the fae done for your village in living memory? Either permit or directly cause the desperate straits the king and I have seen at every turn since our arrival.”

“What I heard, all he’s seen is the bottom of a wineglass,” the old woman said sharply.

“I did indeed require rest after my journey here,” Jareth said, taking Iswyniel’s cue. “In one day, however, I have seen shocking neglect and mismanagement. You should _never_ have been reduced to eating your plow-beasts. No king worthy of the name would permit such to happen to his people.”

The old woman bared her teeth – all three of them – in a vicious grin. “Easy to forget what it’s like to go hungry, up there in the castle with casks of ale and roast meat on your table every day.”

“I have lived on stew and porridge since arriving,” Jareth told her. “And having seen the state of the granary, I’m feeling rather ill about the porridge, honestly.”

They all seemed taken aback, and Iswyniel cut him a warning glance. But the man who’d called this woman his mother spoke up, worriedly. “The granary? We’re supposed to have three years worth of grain…”

“And you did, before the mold got to it,” Iswyniel replied. “If so much grain was available, why was it not used to fatten livestock for the winter?”

“The Guild said we needed it for emergencies,” a younger woman said. “And seed, for next year’s crop.”

“Your seed stock is rotten, too, unless it is kept somewhere else,” Jareth said. “No, the situation is quite dire. I intend to do all I can to remedy it.”

At that, the old woman laughed. “How? Make it rain soup? There aren’t even enough deer left in the forest to poach!”

“ _Ma!”_ the man said, horrified.

Iswyniel looked at Jareth then. “I happen to know the kingdoms of Astolwyr and Etaron have surplus grain,” she said. “Astolwyr’s lambs are ready to be driven to new pastures, and Etaron has horses and cattle waiting for the fairs. Your treasury holds enough to buy all that your lands need.”

Jareth swallowed. All of those coins and jewels, he’d already begun thinking of them as  _his_ … but he could not let these people starve. They had trusted in their king, and those that were left could not envision escape. It was up to him to save them. The situation wasn’t his fault, but it was now his responsibility.

Besides, he could probably negotiate a hefty discount from his parents’ and grandparents’ kingdoms.

“We will need an inventory,” he began. “How many plows needing draft animals, how many hides of fields yet to be sown, how many mattocks and other tools for the fieldwork. What stores exist here, how many beasts, how many craftsmen – all that, and everything else of import. And even once we bring the supplies in, it will be hard work and long days. We can perhaps get in a harvest before the weather turns, if we make haste.”

He turned to the old woman then, who looked stunned. “Since you, old mother, have the courage to speak the truth even when it might damn you, I will enlist you as reeve until the solstice. Let the village elect its own reeve then. For now, I require honesty more than respect. What is your name?”

“Jytha,” she said, sounding shocked. “And you, your majesty, I…”

“Thank me when your belly is full and so is the granary,” Jareth replied. “Many fine promises are made by kings. Let all of you see that Jareth of Etaron is as good as his word, _then_ bend your head to me.”

“Aye, your majesty,” the villagers said in unison. They all leapt to action, only one young girl staying behind to lead Jareth and Iswyniel to the village mill. That, and the smithy, they wanted to inspect themselves. The girl was some sort of fae race Jareth had never yet seen, long-faced and long-eared, but her dark eyes held a gentleness that made her pretty nonetheless. She skipped ahead of them, as galvanized by the new air of purpose as the rest of her village.

Iswyniel murmured, “That was neatly done.”

He spread his hands helplessly. “What else could we do? Strike her down, and run from pitchforks in the next moment? I took offense, but dared not show it. And you were the one who commented on the treasury. Thank you for spending my money.”

She flicked him in the ear, quicker than even his swift eyes could follow. “Don’t be an ass. You didn’t earn that, someone here did. Spend it where it’s needed. The wealth of a kingdom is its magic, boy, and Umardelin is richer than most.”

“Not that I can _use_ it yet,” Jareth grumbled.

“Hush. It’s your first day acting like a proper king. Ye gods, for someone whose conquests were legendary enough to rise to _my_ ears, it’s as if you know nothing of courtship. No one, man or woman or kingdom, is won in a day.” Iswyniel shook her head at him.

“Actually, quite a few of them were won in an hour,” Jareth replied, not without pride.

She turned to look at him. “Tch. I don’t mean bedding some pretty stranger, you swaggering fool. Even now, I could twitch my skirts and find company for the night, were I so inclined and not wed to your grandfather. Surely you’ve courted, seeking more than a night’s pleasure?”

This was  _not_ a conversation he wanted to be having with his grandmother. “Of course. But there is little difference, when it all ends the same. Passion fades, and you both move on.”

She cradled her forehead in her hands, sighing. “This is what I feared for your mother. You are so used to everyone loving your pretty face – and your shiny crown – you have no idea what it means to love  _truly_ , mind and heart in partnership. Even your father the Thief-King knew better. Gods, you are so  _young_ . No wonder you were cursed as you were.”

Jareth could only shrug, not wanting to debate it with her. And not wanting to discuss his father’s unfortunate nickname, either; the ballads made it all too clear. Deruthiel had only  _thought_ he’d kidnapped Astolwyr’s princess to plead his case and pledge his troth. An owl cannot be so easily held against her will.

Iswyniel continued, “Making her reeve was wise. It shows your mercy, and your cunning. Bitter old women always know everyone’s business.” Jareth did not remark on that, looking straight ahead and keeping a listening expression on his face. “You should not have taken offense to her, in any case,” she continued. “She is but one woman, and while despair crushes some, it sharpens others. Be gracious with your people. You are a  _king_ , and they have not known a true royal for too many years. Mind your princely temper, or you’ll be no better than Thydus.”

“Who _was_ Thydus, anyway?” Jareth asked, and softened the question by adding, “You know everything there is to know about the high courts.”

“A greater idiot than you could ever be, even if you tried,” Iswyniel shot back. “He was a younger son of one of the noble families – those trees don’t precisely branch, you know, so I cannot remember which one it was. His official crime was treason, attempting to foment rebellion against his elder brother the crown prince. I think his actual offense was lack of discretion; it’s not as if kingdoms don’t frequently change hands by nefarious means. The case went to the High King, and his ruling was that if Thydus wanted a kingdom so badly, he could take Umardelin. I seem to recall that his desire to rule was not _entirely_ selfish, but he took this place for a millstone around his neck rather than an opportunity.”

Jareth couldn’t help curling his lip. Thydus had left Umardelin even more of a burden than it had been before, and now  _he_ had to sort it out, or suffer Thydus’ fate. And ‘eaten alive by goblins’ was  _not_ what he wanted on his epitaph. “Speaking of millstones,” he muttered, and nodded ahead.

There was a river here, and a mill built across it, its huge wheel creaking slowly around. The building looked frighteningly ramshackle, and emitted ominous mechanical groaning noises. Jareth slowed his pace, staring at it, but their guide walked on oblivious, and he and Iswyniel followed. “Who is the miller?” she asked as they approached the door.

“He run off,” the girl told them. “Orin does most of it, now.”

“And where is Orin?” Jareth asked, since the mill was obviously in operation, but no one had come out at the sound of their voices.

“At the village. He’s the baker, too.” The girl headed inside, and Jareth stepped in, only to freeze, his hair standing up. Beside him, Iswyniel hissed.

They had known there would be iron in the mill, bolts and nails and fittings, but not  _this_ much. The fae girl moved carefully around a series of chains hanging from the ceiling, and Jareth followed, his skin crawling. “It appears Umardelin is rich in iron,” he murmured to Iswyniel. 

She nodded, and asked the girl, “Who built these works?”

The girl had stepped around rotting floorboards to lead them up to the great wheel, and a contraption that rattled and clanked alarmingly. “Goblins,” she said easily. “They’re good with stuff like this. They built this for us, to store the power, see? The wheel turns, and it winds this chain around that shaft, and when it’s all wound up the gear clicks over to the next shaft. We can store power for when the river is slow, or use it to run one grinder while the other runs off the water-wheel.”

“Remarkable,” Iswyniel said, and Jareth agreed. He had seen many intricate clockworks, but powering a mill like this was more advanced than he’d expected of Umardelin so far, which appeared to be a century or so behind Etaron and two centuries or more behind the world Above. And that the _goblins_ had built it – they were universally despised, the lowest of low fae, dirty and smelly and uncouth. This meant they had more cunning than most high fae realized.

And they were immune to iron, so much so that they used it freely. “Is there an iron mine somewhere in this realm?” he wondered aloud.

“No, the dwarfs trade for it,” the girl said. “Not our dwarfs, the hairy ones from the mountains. They always have metals and gems. I see them at the market all the time.”

“And what do the dwarves buy from Umardelin?” Iswyniel asked lightly. Jareth nodded to her slightly; the girl was young enough that she might not realize she was giving away someone’s secrets.

“Dunno,” the girl replied with a shrug. “Herbs sometimes, I think. And some white grainy stuff, but it’s not salt or flour. Stickier than that.”

“Thank you,” Iswyniel said. “The king and I both appreciate the help you’ve given us, and your honesty.”

She only shrugged. “Are you gonna stay? King Thydus didn’t stay. He wasn’t nice, either.”

Jareth and Iswyniel shared a quick look. That statement indicated that while she was old enough to remember Thydus, she’d been young enough – or innocent enough, due to her character or to a simple mind – not to have been told of his death. “I intend to stay,” Jareth told her. “And I shall endeavor to be nice, as much as possible. A king cannot always be as kind as he would wish to be. Some things must be done, for the good of all the kingdom, and those things are not always pleasant.”

She gave them a pouty look, and Iswyniel told her, “You may go. Here, a penny for your trouble.” The sorceress flipped her the coin, and the girl grinned at them both before scampering off. “Well, Jareth, let us conclude our tour. Oh, and note: what herbs are the dwarves buying? And what else?” The quill and scroll leapt out of her sleeve to write that down as well, while Jareth sighed.

“The smithy,” he said. “I do believe we saw it on the way in. I wonder if the smith is a goblin?”

“Let us go and see,” Iswyniel replied.

 


	11. Oinos ar Dekam

As it turned out, the smith was not a goblin, instead a dwarf. And not the sort Jareth expected.

The proper names for the races were mountain and lowland dwarves, but many fae referred to them as hairy and warty. The two races had in common their short, stout stature, with large heads, hands, and feet in relation to their body size. Jareth knew them as skilled craftsmen and valiant warriors, well respected in all the realms, though the finest weapons and jewelry were typically produced by the mountain dwarves who had the gem and metal mines. The lowland dwarves were capable smiths, but more often known for carpentry and weaving. Their metalwork was usually practical, making such essentials as locks, buckles, hasps, cookware, and tools, in bronze or iron depending on their customers. Jareth’s father Thiel was fond of saying that a man might save for ten years to buy a sword forged by mountain dwarves, yet spend twice that in the intervening years on all the thousand things their lowland cousins made.

Most of the dwarves in Umardelin were the warty kind, with sparse hair, bulging eyes, large noses, and a variety of blemishes. The smith was of the hairy variety, with long curly hair, a bushy beard, and a luxurious mustache. All that hair was neatly braided and bound back from the dwarf’s face, the better to avoid flying sparks.

“A moment of your time, good sir?” Iswyniel said, and the dwarf stopped brushing the bronze spear point to look at them.

Jareth took in the appearance, noted the silkiness of the hair and the neatness of the ribbons, and corrected, “Good madam, as the case may be.”

“Smart boy,” the dwarf said, in a voice almost as deep as a man’s, but there was a twinkle in her eyes at being properly recognized. Jareth shrugged; he had known Thorvald’s mother long enough to pick up on differences that were, to the high fae, rather subtle.

“My apologies,” Iswyniel said. “I have the pleasure of introducing his highness, King Jareth, recently arrived to take over the rulership of Umardelin.”

That spooked the dwarf, and she made a hasty bow. “My apologies, Sire, I did not know. I had not heard.”

He decided to set her at ease by waving the apology aside. “Peace, I have been called much worse than a smart boy in my time. You give no offense, lady smith. We have come to inquire as to the state of the village. I see at a glance that your smithy is well-run – and that is a welcome relief.”

The dwarf showed her teeth in a bitter smile. “So you noticed, have you? Not much is being well-run here, but by the old gods  _no one_ gainsays a smith at her own forge. I’m Valka. Come, your majesties, be seated and refreshed, if cold cider is to your taste.”

Cold cider on a day like this certainly was, and there was a small bright stream running behind the smithy, where a jug of cider had been submerged to keep cool. Surrounded by so much iron, the only place to sit was at a scarred wooden table to one side, covered in wood shavings which Valka brushed off hastily.

This, at last, was a situation where Jareth felt more at ease than Iswyniel. He’d adored Thorvald’s mother Thekla, the iron-sharp wit and subtle humor coupled with a forthrightness that was common in mountain dwarves. Though she’d often given him grief when he visited her son – and made no secret of what she thought of his other companions, or that he himself was a rascal – there was a fondness behind the scolding tone. She was gentler than his own grandmother, for certain.

Pouring cider for them all, Valka seated herself across from them and met their gazes piercingly. “Now, what do a pair of royals need to know?”

“I am not Umardelin’s queen,” Iswyniel demurred. “Only King Jareth’s assistant.”

That raised the dwarf’s eyebrows. “You’re queen of something, I wager. You don’t carry yourself like a follower.”

Jareth decided to take her somewhat into confidence. “In Umardelin, she is my assistant,” he said, arching a brow. “I trust you understand. We need to know everything we can about this kingdom, both of us coming into it blind.”

Valka sipped cider. “Well. You might’ve guessed, but my spotty-faced cousins don’t tell me much. They’d sooner have one of their own as village smith, if it wasn’t so much work. And they don’t like me for not bowing and scraping to their sorry Gardeners’ Guild. Fat lot of slimy pockmarked bastards, they are.”

“It seems the village is near starving,” Iswyniel put in. “If you speak literally, I wonder that the guild manages to grow fat.”

“Oh but dwarves require special diets,” Valka said, baring her teeth again. “They cannot live on pease porridge and chicken scraps. Very delicate constitution, have the lowland dwarves. They must dine on squab and pheasant, beef and mutton, which are very fattening, you know.”

“Bollocks,” Jareth said flatly. “I’ve never known a dwarf of either race to turn epicure. I _have_ known a lady dwarf of your kind, a queen nonetheless, to eat dragon’s heart raw and take shots of liquor that were first set aflame.”

“Must be Queen Thekla of Yborithien,” Valka said, and knocked back a healthy amount of cider from her mug by way of a toast. Jareth nodded, echoing the drink. “Not my clan, of course, but she’s a household name. From our perspective, she let her people down somewhat, marrying a high fae prince. But there’s none can say she’s less a dwarf for it.”

“Her son Thorvald is a close friend,” Jareth explained. “And neither she nor any of the lowland dwarves of my acquaintance were so nice in their dining habits.”

“These warty knaves are special,” Valka growled. “They treat me like a mushroom, you understand – keep me in the dark and feed me shit. Or try to, anyway. It’d thrill them no end to get rid of me, but the people would fight that. I make the nails, the braces, the locks, the hasps, the keys, the plowshares, the mattocks, the hoes, the pots, the pans, the tongs, the table knives, and I make it all better than those boil-sprouting little turds can. Cheaper, too. It’s my brother’s wife’s clan that has the iron trade here, and I get a discount for having brokered the agreement.”

She sipped cider and grimaced. “Good thing, too. I’ve damn near gone hungry myself. I can’t refuse to repair tools for these people, and the best they can pay with sometimes are some stringy vegetables or one of their scrawny chickens. Better to give them credit, and if I forget to call in a loan, well, that’s my business. I’m still eating, and I pay my rents on time. Of course, the pride some of these villagers have, they insist on paying me back even if I don’t ask.”

Iswyniel had been studying her, and asked gently, “What brought you to Umardelin in the first place? I’ve known a few dwarves in my time, and none of them have willingly stayed in a kingdom that did not properly appreciate them.”

“ _Umardelin_ appreciates me,” Valka said. “I have no quarrel with the kingdom, only the greasy little squints calling themselves a guild. Besides, like Queen Thekla, I’m involved in a life-debt.”

She stood up, and hitched up her trousers. Her right leg was gone from above the knee, yet Jareth had not guessed it while watching her walk. The limb had been replaced with smooth metal, and complicated gears at the knee and ankle allowed her to move freely. “I came here for some contract work under Thydus,” Valka explained, smoothing the fabric and sitting back down. “The smith before me had disappeared, and I was naive enough to think everyone was as careful in their work as I am. The damn forge  _ collapsed _ , and thank the gods it wasn’t hot or I’d’ve burned alive right here. Crushed my leg all to hell. Nothing like seeing your own toes on the wrong side of half a ton of brick.

“Twas the goblins found me, and dug me out, and dragged me to the castle. I was raving with pain and fever by then, but the doctor we used to have set me up rightly. And once I was healed, a couple of the goblin smiths helped me make up this leg. Right geniuses, they are, for clockworks and gears. They designed the mill, you know?”

“We just saw it,” Iswyniel replied. “That leg is marvelous work. I’d love to know the name of the goblin who helped you.”

“That’s the thing, they don’t work like that,” she explained. “There were half a dozen of them making sketches and quarreling over how a knee should bend, and the final design is by all of them, I’d guess. None wanted to take sole credit, and none of them really cared after it was done, other than having a feast when they saw it worked. Once they build a thing, they lose interest, and it’s on to the next. I’ve never seen a goblin use a maker’s mark on any of their contraptions, and they don’t seem to know what a patent is, either. So far as I’m concerned, my debt is to Umardelin and the goblins in general, so here I’m bound.”

Jareth had remained quiet throughout that tale, his gut twisting in horror. Once, as a foolish boy, he’d tried to leap from a window and turn owl as he did so, the better to soar – his flight still being a trifle unsteady at that young age. Only once he felt the earth snatch greedily at him, realizing he was  _falling_ , he could not summon the concentration to change forms. Luckily it was only a second-story window, and he’d fallen onto grass instead of flagstones, but he still remembered the brittle green-branch  _snap!_ of his leg breaking. And then, after a delay just long enough for him to wonder if he wasn’t hurt at all, the pain had blasted through him.

He’d screamed loud enough to bring both parents at a dead run, and Della had been frantic. Her fear had only made him cry louder, thinking the injury was worse than it was. It was Thiel who’d picked him up and carried him to the infirmary, and Jareth still remembered that with absolute clarity. He’d outgrown being carried about as soon as he could walk, fiercely independent, but in that small hell of pain and weakness he’d been so glad of his father’s strength and surety. The recovery was boring, accompanied by aches and itches, but his leg had healed true and he’d flown again – though it was a long time before Della trusted him to practice without her supervision.

He could not imagine  _losing_ a leg in such awful circumstances. Just listening to Valka’s dry recital of it brought him perilously close to an abrupt return of the cider he’d drunk. Even the perils of the Labyrinth looked welcoming beside  _that_ .

Iswyniel was speaking then, covering for his horrified silence. “We are fortunate to have you, and our first priority here is to end this famine,” she was telling Valka. “It can be done, and we are fortunate as well that the castle treasury is full enough to buy the grain and food and livestock we will need.”

Valka raised an eyebrow. “How’d you get into the treasury? Last I heard, only the chancellor had the key. And here’s a funny story, no one’s seen  _him_ for months.”

“The doors swung open at our approach,” Jareth said. “I thought them keyed to Umardelin’s monarch. We were looking for the talisman of the kingdom, in any case.”

Valka smirked. “Well, well. I know the dwarf who made that lock – I saw his mark stamped on the iron. It shouldn’t open by magic, only by the key, and the warty dwarves have been hopping mad about not being able to get into it without the chancellor. Then again, I’d wager they have enough buried in their crofts and stuffed under their mattresses to run the kingdom at need. Greedy beasts. I suppose Umardelin herself wanted you to see the treasury. She does things like that, this kingdom. Like no other I’ve ever visited.”

“Umardelin is far more powerful than most kingdoms, and more willful despite her age. I am ashamed to say I was too focused on the talisman to have noticed the treasury opened so easily.” Iswyniel shook her head. “Astolwyr’s treasury is spell-locked, as is Etaron’s. More fool me, that I did not think Umardelin might be otherwise.”

Valka looked at her steadily. “You are Iswyniel of Astolwyr, aren’t you?” she said, very quietly. “Who else would be traipsing into the treasuries of that kingdom and of Etaron? We hear the songs, even this far out. And I remember where I’ve heard the name Jareth now, too. Crown prince of Etaron, an old ally of Yborithien. And your grandson, which is why you’re here helping him.”

Jareth had the satisfaction of watching his grandmother blush with shame at having given herself away. She recovered swiftly. “You are a wise woman, Valka, and an honorable dwarf. I trust I need not still your tongue by magic?”

Valka smiled. “I think I’ve licked too much iron in my time for that to work. But it isn’t my business, in any case, what you call yourself here. If you feed these people and set those poxy bastards on their ears, you’ve done enough by me.”

“Speaking of the lowland dwarves,” Jareth said. “You said you brokered the trade agreement. What exactly are they trading for? Umardelin has no mines, and barely produces enough food for its own people.”

She paused then, frowning. “I swore not to discuss the particulars of the agreement. I cannot break my oath, much as I’d like to.”

Jareth swore then, too, a short phrase that made Iswyniel kick him reflexively for uttering it. But Valka grinned again. “Go looking for what  _does_ grow here. Not in gardens, mind. You’ll find the Gardeners’ Guild in the Labyrinth itself, in the stone maze, and you’ll find our main trade there too. You might also ask the goblins what  _they_ do for the guild. Dirty work, but useful.”

“Thank you, for your discretion and the information,” Iswyniel said. “It is rare for me to trust someone on first meeting, but you appear to care for this kingdom and its people as I hope my grandson will. I honor that.”

“You are most welcome, majesty,” Valka said. “And I’ll wait ‘til you’re long gone from here before I start cadging free drinks with the story of how I sat down to cider with the Sorceress of Astolwyr.”

Jareth chuckled, and drained his mug, preparing to leave. He gave Valka his thanks as well, and offered his hand, which she shook warmly. Just as he and Iswyniel were rising to go, the dwarf added one more thing. “A word about the castle armory,” she said. “I told Thydus that I was no weaponsmith, and the warty dwarves here are too lazy to swing a hammer. Most of the weapons you’ll find are goblin make, and for all their ingenuity, they rarely refine or temper metal. Most of their armor is stuff I wouldn’t use to make a pot, and their blades may be brittle.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to open battle,” Jareth said. “If does, we will be doubly in your debt.” Valka nodded, and returned to her work.

 


	12. Dwai-Dekam

Stalking the stone maze was a task for the morrow. Jareth and Iswyniel headed back to the castle, where Landon served them generous amounts of stew accompanied by rough brown bread. He was clearly nervous, putting that poor food in front of the new king, but after walking all day and missing lunch, Jareth was more than happy to put away two bowls. He didn’t let himself think about the state of the granary while using that bread to mop up the last drops from the bottom of his bowl.

Iswyniel, however, was thinking of it. “We need a scrying room,” she said, setting her bowl aside. “I’ll need to speak to your parents, and to Jarrek, about the supplies we need to order.”

“We’re going to need _everything_ ,” Jareth sighed, imagining that lovely treasury emptied. 

He followed Iswyniel as she headed up into the castle’s tower, seeking a small and more private room from which to converse by seeing crystal. As she went, she named off provisions for her enchanted quill to note down. “Cattle, sheep, pigs, horses, broad beans, field peas, all manner of vegetable seeds, fruit tree saplings, ground grain and seed grain. I haven’t seen a scrap of flax here yet, but it may be too dry for that.”

“There’s a horrendous bog, we might grow flax on its shores, so long as the smell doesn’t transfer to the flax,” Jareth supplied. “As for grains, spring and winter wheat, barley, oats, and rye. It appears that none of the new foodstuffs from the Americas were ever grown here, but I’d like to try maize, at least.”

His grandmother nodded. “Astolwyr is too cold for maize, so I know little about it. Should grow here, though. And those lumpen potato things grow very well almost everywhere. I cannot stomach them myself, but the people enjoy them. You ought to try them as well. Only be careful not to depend on them. The mortals learned a hard lesson on that score quite recently.”

Jareth nodded, privately thinking her a trifle old-fashioned. He had grown up with potatoes as part of the normal diet – the fae realms followed human fashion in some respects, and when New World crops arrived in Europe, their seeds also fell into fae hands, leading to an agricultural boom as the new strains were adapted. Maize and potatoes were eaten in many realms, the many squashes and peppers were also gaining traction, and a few gustatory daredevils even claimed that tomatoes – grown strictly for their appearance – were also edible. Tobacco did not much catch on amongst the fae, though mortals loved it.

It was not all joy, however. Even as mortals Above mingled and clashed in the Americas, the world Underground dealt with similar confrontations. Ever since the first Norsemen visited New World shores, a war had been brewing, for the High King of the European, Celtic fae would suffer no equal. He and his predecessors had dealt similarly with the fae of Asia and Africa, and what that proved about European ruthlessness and belligerence, Jareth had no desire to ponder.

The conflicts with New World fae races, Jareth preferred not to remember. He had not had to fight, of course, and Etaron had wealth enough to pay in coin rather than in the service of its knights when the High King levied all his realms. It had all been settled by mercenary warriors and assassins, and now the New World fae dwindled. Unlike mortals, the Old World fae did not attempt to snuff out the very existence of their New World counterparts, but as their mortal believers fell to disease and genocide, the fae of the Americas suffered as well. The High King could not restrain European mortals, as the highest law he upheld was not to interfere in human affairs. It was a sorry business, all around, and one which Jareth was glad he’d not taken part in.

Still, in the centuries since, it seemed Umardelin had never taken advantage of the New World’s bounty. Jareth meant to rectify that. He had only five days’ worth of experience of the climate, but they might as well try as many different types of foodstuffs as they could manage, and see what grew best here.

Iswyniel found a room to her standards, which included a dusty table and several chairs. Jareth set those to rights, sneezing, and Iswyniel seated herself to summon a large seeing crystal, which she settled in the middle of the table.

Jarrek answered, and Jareth bowed his head at the expression on his grandfather’s face. The older man had a distinctly raptorial nose, piercing eyes of dark gray, and variegated hair in shades of pale blond. Just now his brows were furrowed, his normally good-humored expression soured by worry. Iswyniel might be over-sharp, but Jarrek had always been kind and encouraging, and it stung Jareth’s sense of honor to be the cause of concern for him as well. “Fare you well, my lady?” he asked.

“As well as can be,” Iswyniel replied. “Umardelin is a _wreck_. Our dear arrogant fop of a grandson is going to be a hero, if he lives to set all this to rights.”

“Our grandson who takes entirely too much after _you_ will surely do so,” Jarrek countered. “Greetings, Jareth. How fare you?”

At that simple question Jareth sighed, and sagged in his chair. “Overwhelmed, frankly. I wish I had a seneschal of half your competence, Grandfather. There has been no king here for several years, and the last one ran this realm like a mad tyrant.”

“All the better for you,” Iswyniel pointed out. “Oh yes, you may have to break a sweat at some point in fixing it all, but they will cheer you as their savior when it’s done. And you badly need the approval of the people to win the kingdom.”

“He looks like he needs a day’s sleep and a good meal,” Jarrek said.

“Nonsense, he’d sleep for a week if I let him, and as for good meals, there are none to be had here,” Iswyniel retorted. “We’re probably not going to market this year, love. All our surplus can be sold to Umardelin.”

“At a bulk rate, discounted for family,” Jareth put in, and she turned to glare at him.

Jarrek replied, “It will save us a great deal of time and portage, to sell it all at once. What exactly do you need?”

“ _Everything,_ ” Jareth and Iswyniel said in unison, and she went on to read off the list her quill had prepared. It sounded even longer, hearing it all again, and Jareth winced again at the thought of the cost.

Jarrek looked more and more perturbed, finally shaking his head birdlike. “That  _is_ a mess, indeed.”

Iswyniel could only nod. “And what do we have stored, that we can spare?”

Jarrek rattled off the list of Astolwyr’s stocks without needing to consult records; he’d always had a keen memory, the legacy of becoming seneschal before learning to read. Iswyniel nodded, and made notes on the scroll as he spoke. “How long has our grain been in storage?”

“We have several tons of rye, barley, and wheat that are close to five years old,” Jarrek replied. “We would be using them ourselves this year, but the surplus is sufficient to send all of the old grain. And we can send part of this year’s crop as seed stock, too.”

Jareth tried to pay attention and not fall asleep as Jarrek and Iswyniel discussed tonnage of grain and dried peas and beans. There would be oxen and horses to draw the wagons as well, which Umardelin also needed. When they got to discussing lambs, Jareth roused enough to speak. “I wonder if sheep will well tolerate this climate,” he told them. “It seems either too hot or too wet, by turns. Perhaps we ought to have goats instead, for their milk and meat.”

“You’ll have to get them from Etaron,” Jarrek replied. “We had too many bucklings born this year, and need to keep back some doelings to replace the older ones. But I can send some bucklings to fatten for meat. What of vegetables and their seeds?”

“Beans and peas are about the only things doing well,” Iswyniel said. “Send beets, turnips, parsnips, carrots, onions, the whole lot, both dried and seeds. Seeds for melons, cabbages, and cucumbers, too, all the things that don’t travel well. I want those villagers _fat_ by winter, and praising Jareth’s good name. And potatoes, have we enough to send those ready to eat as well as in seed form?”

“We have, but you’ll do better cutting some of the scrawnier potatoes apart and planting the pieces. As long as you have an ‘eye’ in each piece, they’ll grow new plants,” Jarrek informed them.

Iswyniel sneered a little at the notion of a vegetable with eyes. “What else? We still haven’t found an orchard here. I think Etaron will take care of us, on that score.”

“I can send barrels of salt fish, too,” Jarrek replied. “Smoked meat, you’d need to ask Etaron. Partridge and venison do not travel so well as beef and pork.” 

Jareth sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You mean to plant an orchard, too? Grandmother, you’re sending more seedstock than we have fields.”

“So assart more land from the forest,” Iswyniel said. “Umardelin ought to allow it, if it’s for the good of her people. Speaking of people, Jarrek, find out which of ours are looking for a new start. There are always some with itchy feet. Anyone willing to work here, in the castle or the village, can go with my blessing. And a new suit of clothes for the travel, and three silvers apiece. I wager Etaron can make the same offer. Umardelin badly needs new staff.”

Jareth, somewhat annoyed with her habit of making his decisions for him, said drolly, “What we need  _most_ is a reliable and experienced seneschal. Grandfather, have you ever considered traveling?”

Oh, the  _look_ she turned on him then! Equal parts outrage and disbelief, with a smattering of horror. “If you think for  _one instant_ I would part with your grandfather…!”

“Alas, I love the perks of my current posting far too much to consider leaving,” Jarrek chuckled. 

Iswyniel turned that affronted look on him, then glowered when she realized he was teasing her. “Obnoxious bird. Mention your perks and not your royal  _wife_ . I must pay you too well, if you are so fond of your position.”

Jarrek only smiled. “My love, you haven’t paid me since you married me – I took myself off the list of household retainers to avoid any awkwardness. And you should know you  _are_ the perk that keeps me here.”

“As it should be,” Iswyniel proclaimed, lifting her chin arrogantly, and Jareth rolled his eyes where she couldn’t see. The pair of them said their goodbyes, and Iswyniel reset the crystal to call upon Etaron.

Della answered immediately, her gaze fixing on Jareth with raptorial intensity, and then she breathed a sigh of relief. “I am glad to see you both looking well,” she said.

“I would be more glad if we felt entirely well about this mess,” Iswyniel replied. “Daughter mine, Thydus was a foolish tyrant, this kingdom is being run into the ground by a selfish guild, the people who haven’t left are near-starving, and your son will come out of it a hero if we can salvage the situation. He will need help from Etaron to accomplish that.”

“Ask, then,” Della said, and Jareth read off the list this time, less the items Astolwyr was sending. She nodded at the end of it. “Goats, pigs, cattle, and horses we can provide more easily than Astolwyr. As for grain, we have sufficient wheat, maize, and oats to send surplus. Salted and smoked meat, too. Seeds for squashes, and fruit saplings as well. Have you thought of beehives and dovecotes?”

“We haven’t seen either,” Jareth replied. “I would not disparage any hives or doves you send – we can build cotes. What of flax?”

“I can scramble together flaxseed enough to plant a hide’s worth,” Della said. “And there are people here who would relish the challenge of helping to rebuild. I think, between us and Astolwyr, you will make a good start.”

“Don’t let him rob you just because he’s your son,” Iswyniel warned, and Jareth glared at her.

“Mother, it is my kingdom and my treasury,” Della said patiently.

“And Umardelin’s is mine now,” Jareth said. “According to one of our sources, the Gardeners’ Guild is stuffing their mattresses with coin even faster than the treasury here fills. We are going tomorrow to see what exactly they’re growing here that makes them ignore the necessities of food. I should dearly like to know how much the guildsmen have.”

Della leaned back with a crafty smile. “You are king,” she told him. “You may levy a tax on assets, to pay for the supplies you’re bringing in. Exempt everyone who has less than a certain amount, and your peasants will thank you. The only challenge will be finding out precisely how much the guildsmen are hiding.”

“I have a few ideas in that direction,” Iswyniel said. “Send all the assistance you can, daughter.”

“I will,” Della replied, and turned her gaze to Jareth again. “I love you, son.”

“As I love you,” he told her. “Give Father my love as well.”

With a few more pleasantries Iswyniel broke the spell, then sat back and sighed. “We may just be able to turn this around.”

“She’s right about taxing the guild,” Jareth mused. “How will we find out what they’re hoarding?”

Iswyniel favored him with a sardonic grin. “You’re the king. You can order a search – once we know who precisely is in this guild, which is troubling that they have not come forward to meet their new ruler. But I would prefer to be subtler than that. I suspect the goblins know more than anyone gives them credit for, and they have an innate genius for getting into hidden places. If we can win them to our cause, they will do our searching for us. And discovering just what it is they do for the guild will be the first step in winning them.”

Jareth sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “The list of things that must be done grows ever longer. At least it is not court politics. I rather detest all of that maneuvering and backstabbing.”

“Here at least they’ll stab you in the face, I wager,” Iswyniel said. “Much as you hate politicking, let us tread softly for the moment. I would not challenge this guild until we know what they are doing – and we have foodstuffs at the gate. It would be best to reveal their treachery and our largesse in the same breath.”

“Agreed,” Jareth mused, and surprised himself by yawning. “I ought to retire to bed. To the Goblin City, tomorrow, and the stone maze. I warn you, Grandmother, this place can change its layout underneath your very feet.”

“I should hope she plays no such tricks on us when we are helping her,” Iswyniel sighed. “If she does, I’ll have a wayfinding spell at hand. To bed with you then; we will rise early.”

Jareth groaned at that, and she only laughed at him.

 


End file.
